


"Rest Beside the Weary Road"

by farad



Series: Christmas Carols [3]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 24, afternoon</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Rest Beside the Weary Road"

**Author's Note:**

> Set the Christmas after "Obsession"; thanks to Huntersglenn for the beta. Thanks also to Zeke Black and her awesome Magnificent Seven Handbook, with transcripts, pictures of the clothes the boys wore, and every thing else, and the people at Daybook for their quick answers to my specific detail needs! All mistakes my very own.

_**"O ye beneath life's crushing load,** _

_**Whose forms are bending low,** _

_**Who toil along the climbing way** _

_**With painful steps and slow;** _

_**Look now, for glad and golden hours** _

_**Come swiftly on the wing;** _

_**Oh rest beside the weary road** _

_**And hear the angels sing."** _

 

\--from "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear", verse two,

written by Edward Hamilton Sears in 1849

 

 

Chris heard the horse coming in, a steady stride that he recognized before the rider called out, "Vin coming in!"

 

He let his pistol fall to his side even though he didn't put it up yet; never knew what the situation was.

 

But he was careful. In the long nine month since Ella Gaines had ruined his life again, he'd stopped taking anything for granted. Again.

 

Including Vin. He wondered what could be important enough to get Vin out here. It wasn't something he did very often, not anymore. Another casualty of Ella Gaines.

 

Though Chris knew that it wasn't her fault entirely. Mostly, it was his own.

 

Vin waved a hand when he saw Chris, as much a reassurance as a friendly gesture. Chris stepped out from under the porch and the first sprinkles of a cold rain tickled his face. It was gonna be a cold, wet night, just as it should be. For him at least.

 

Vin brought his horse up close and stopped, then he turned to open one of his saddle bags. They were loaded, and Chris did a quick inventory, though he didn't have to. Like himself, Vin avoided town this time of the year.

 

"You just now headed out?" he asked instead. "Thought you were leaving yesterday." Like me, he almost added.

 

Vin turned back, shifting easily as his horse pranced a little, impatient to be moving. "Nettie asked for a turkey – things are damned hard to track down this time of year. Was late getting back, figured I'd wait 'til today," he answered. He held out a cloth-wrapped bundle as he went on, "Mary asked me to bring this to you. Said to remind you that you're welcome anytime tomorrow. They'll have enough food to feed the Army."

 

Chris took the bundle, which was still warm. Just out of the oven.

 

"Reckon it's raisin bread," Vin said. "She's been baking for two days now, her and Mrs. Potter and pretty much every other woman in town. Whole place smells like – well . . . " He looked away, his lips twisting just a little at the corners in a sort of grin.

 

"Reckon it does," Chris agreed, remembering when his own house had smelled like that, of spices and sugar and fresh-baked treats. He shook his head, as much to clear the memory as anything else. "You eat raisin bread?" he asked, holding the bundle out to Vin.

 

Vin stared at him for a few seconds then sighed. "She made it for you, Chris," he said softly. "Think she's trying to make things right – well, as much as she can. Ain't my place to eat that."

 

He picked up the reins and started to turn the horse away. Without thinking, Chris stepped up and caught Vin's knee.

 

"Wait," he said. "You gotta be somewhere?"

 

Vin loosened his grip on the reins and clucked to the horse, who snorted irritably at the interruption. He looked at Chris and Chris saw the lines in Vin's face, the tightness at the corners of his eyes that showed through the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

 

For a time, a long, cold time, Chris thought Vin was going to refuse him. It had been nine months since he'd asked Vin to stay, ten, really; the month before Ella had shown up, Chris had gone into mourning for the family he'd lost. Ten months.

 

The rain was growing harder now, droplets that darkened Vin's coat and hat where they hit, droplets that felt like ice when they soaked through Chris' clothes to his skin. He took his hand off Vin's knee, missing the heat of it as soon as he did. He started to step back, to walk away, to let Vin go.

 

"Reckon I can stay for a time," Vin said slowly, measuring each word as if it were gold. "Long enough to have a slice of bread and coffee, if you got it."

 

Chris took a deep breath, unaware that he'd been expecting the worse. Unaware how much he'd wanted this answer. "Got coffee," he said. "Put up the horse and I'll start a fresh pot."

 

By the time Vin got into the cabin, the rain was coming down harder and sharper, sounding like glass breaking as it hit the tin roof. Ice was mixed with it, ice that wasn't melting as the afternoon grew darker. Chris added more wood to the fire and unwrapped the raisin bread, setting it near the hot stove to stay warm. The smell of it spread through the small cabin, and once more, the memory came back of Sara and Christmas and all the things he'd lost. Not once, but twice now.

 

Vin stepped up on the porch, stomping several times to knock off the mud and water, then he took two steps to the door itself. But instead of coming in, he knocked.

 

Chris frowned. It made no sense that Vin would – but then, it did. Vin was keeping the distance between them, acknowledging Chris' privacy. His home.

 

His home that Vin didn't feel welcome in without invitation.

 

"Get your ass in here!" he snapped, angry that he had to say it. Angry that he'd messed things up with them this badly.

 

Vin opened the door and slipped in, closing it quickly behind him. He had taken his hat off under the porch roof and left it – probably too wet to bring into a 'nice house'. He made an effort to wipe his boots off on the piece of rug Chris had in front of the door.

 

Being polite. Minding his manners.

 

Goddammit.

 

Chris crossed his arms, searching for the words to tell him – and stopped. Chris had done this, taking up with Ella, wearing that damned banker's suit for her, planning to stay with her. "That's fine," he said tersely. "Ain't like you don't know this place."

 

Vin looked up at him, still wiping his boots against the rug but more slowly. "Don't want to leave a mess," he said mildly.

 

Chris stared at him, too many answers coming to mind. He swallowed them all down, turning to grab up the fresh pot of coffee and two mugs.

 

Eventually, they sat at the table, the loaf of raisin bread between them, warm and ripe. Cinnamon and cloves, Chris recognized, but there was something else, maybe a hint of ginger or something he wasn't used to.

 

He used the big kitchen knife to cut it into thick slices, then, remembering, he got up and went to the small pantry, pulling out the honey and a bowl of butter. He put those on the table and sat back down, noticing that Vin had made no move to touch his slice yet.

 

"Something wrong?" he asked, looking at the slice he'd cut for himself. It looked fine – good, even, the bread dense, a lot of raisins and swirls of spice through it.

 

"Waiting for you," Vin said with a shrug. He looked down at his slice of bread and Chris noticed that he had one hand in his lap, off the table, polite, and the other knotted into a fist. As if to keep himself from doing exactly what he should have been doing.

 

"Eat," he said sharply. He picked up his own piece, the smell of it rich and inviting, just as Sara's had always been.

 

He couldn't get it to his mouth. He tried; he could feel Vin's eyes on him, knew that Vin was going to wait until he did, was not going to be the first one to take a bite – that would be rude. Impolite. Uncivilized.

 

But the very thought of tasting it, biting into it, the weight of it on his tongue made him want to wretch so violently that he could feel the tremors in his stomach.

 

He willed Vin to pick it up, to take a bite, to give it the attention it so deserved. To give Chris the comfortable intimacy that they had once had.

 

"You all right?" Vin asked. "You look a little green."

 

Chris swallowed or tried to. He couldn't seem to work up enough wetness in his mouth to do so, not with the smell of the bread drying him out. So, carefully, reverently, he put it back on the wooden board he used to cut it. "I – can't. It smells like . . . " The words stuck on his tongue, like molasses. Instead, he tried, "All that spice, the sweetness, it reminds me of . . . " Once more, the words stopped, this time caught before they reached his tongue.

 

He coughed, reached for his coffee and drank down too much, too hot, coughing more when it burned.

 

After a time, when he was breathing better, his mouth clear though scalded, his eyes no longer tearing with the pain of it, he saw Vin pull off a small corner of his slice of bread and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, and somewhere along the way, Chris noticed that he had his eyes closed.

 

After he swallowed, he blinked and looked back at his piece of raisin bread, tearing off another small section. He raised it to his mouth but then he stopped, hesitated, and sighed. The bread hovered there, between his fingers, as he said, "After my ma died, when I was living with her ma, we didn't have much of nothing. We worked hard year-round – had to, to keep the farm. She didn't believe in taking days off, not even Sundays. We'd still do all the chores around going into town for church." He swallowed and finally put the bread down, picking up the coffee instead to take a drink. As he put the mug back, he stared at the table and went on. "We didn't have extra for Christmas – hell, if we had had, we'd have had to spend it on things we needed for the farm, fixing the roof of the barn, getting the horse shod, sharpening the blade on the plow. All sorts of things that always needed doing. But . . ." He swallowed again, drew in a deep breath then went on, "If she had a penny to spare, she'd buy raisins. And then she'd scrape together what she could and she'd make raisin bread. It was how I knew it was Christmas, the smell of it baking on Christmas morning, waking me up, letting me know that when I got back from doing the chores, it was gonna be there for me, warm and sweet and spicy and – well, Christmas."

 

He picked up the piece of bread once more, taking his time to get it to his mouth. Once there, he let it rest on his tongue, tasting every nuance before finally chewing slowly, carefully, as if it were the only thing in the world that was real.

 

Perhaps it was. Chris watched him, thinking about what he wanted, about what he needed.

 

About what Vin had offered ten months ago – two years ago. About the fact that he was here now.

 

Thinking about what Vin had just offered. His past. His childhood.

 

His need.

 

He'd counted on Chris. Needed Chris. And he'd tried to warn Chris about Ella, even though he'd been willing to let Chris go. Because that was what Chris wanted, she was what Chris wanted.

 

Raisin bread was a part of Vin's past, but a good part, a part that he clung to in much the same way it was a part that Chris had come to hate, a reminder of all the ways he had failed.

 

Vin pulled off another piece of bread but before he could lift his hand, Chris reached out and caught his wrist. Chris opened his mouth, trying to find the words to apologize, trying to find some way to explain, to make this right. But as he struggled with the chaos of thoughts in his head, Vin looked at him, the pale blue eyes staring straight into Chris, seeing him like he had that first day.

 

Then he pulled his hand away from Chris' and lifted the small bite of bread up. To Chris' lips. "There ain't no shame in remembering what you love," he said softly. "Only shame in forgetting how much they loved you."

 

It was the closest Vin had come – and would probably ever come – to a rebuke. Not that Chris needed it, not this late in the mess of his life. With effort, he opened his mouth and let Vin place the morsel on his tongue. His stomach twisted and he felt the need to wretch.

 

Then the flavor of it drifted through his mouth, the sweet and the spice seeping into his blood. His stomach slowly soothed and he heard again the sound of ice on the roof, the music of winter in the gloom of night.

 

As if sensing the same, Vin nodded and sat back, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Best be going. Don't want to be setting up camp in the dark - "

 

"Stay here," Chris said, reaching out to try to catch Vin's hand once more. He failed, and he let his fist fall to the table, empty and aching. "It's icy out – you can't stay out there, not tonight."

 

Vin looked at him, his brow scrunching in something like amusement or maybe confusion. One side of his lips turned up in what might have been part of a grin, though the other side didn't move.

 

Chris swallowed, aware, once more, of how little he had to offer, how much he had lost. How much he had forgotten he needed.

 

The pale blue eyes stared into his, as if reading words on the back of his skull.

 

As if seeing the truth that Chris struggled now to voice. "I . . . I . . . I need you. Stay."

 

Vin blinked and looked away, down to his coffee cup which he picked up. After he swallowed, he kept his eyes on the table. "Hard to be alone this time of year. Ain't right partial to it myself. But I'd rather take off than hurt someone who expects - "

 

"I ain't gonna lose you, not again." Chris leaned in close, his fingers digging into the leather of Vin's coat sleeve. "I don't ever want to hear you knock on my door again, dammit. I don't ever want you to act like a stranger in my house. In our house."

 

Vin looked up then, his eyebrows high on his forehead, his big eyes wide.

 

Chris nodded, unrelenting. "This ain't just for tonight or tomorrow night or the rest of this year. This won't end when I find her sorry ass and put her in the ground." He pulled on Vin's arm then reached across with his other hand and caught the front of Vin's shirt, pulling him forward so he could say clearly and in his face, "This ain't about nothing but you and me. I want you. I need you."

 

He swallowed, hearing the words echo in the room, saw the words mirrored in Vin's eyes. He sat back, though he still held onto Vin's arm and shirt, his fingers clutching.

 

Vin didn't say anything but he stared, his face wide and open and the question as clear as if he had put the words out there between them.

 

The question as clear to Chris now as it had always been, despite his attempts not to think about it.

 

"I want you," he said again, measuring each word on his tongue as Vin had earlier. Then, to make sure he had weighted the most important one properly, "you."

 

Vin swallowed then he nodded once.

 

It had been ten months, but it felt like ten years. Or never. Chris found himself unsure, more than he had been the first time he'd touched Vin several years before. Then, it had been fast and hard, the two of them desperate for release, for someone to touch them other than themselves – someone they could trust.

 

This time, Chris was desperate, but it was a different kind of desperate. He needed to touch, to hold, to affirm to Vin that this was different, that it meant something. He needed to hold onto Vin, to bring him back from whatever place he had been slipping away to.

 

The place Chris had driven him to.

 

For his part, Vin seemed equally unsure, something Chris wasn't used to. Of the two of them, Vin was the one who knew what to do when, a knowledge of how to make things work with a minimum of pain and a lot more pleasure. Chris had never had the courage to ask how Vin knew and Vin had never offered the information, just used it in the moments when it was needed.

 

Now, he hesitated, reaching out sometimes but then pulling back before he touched Chris, as if he weren't sure that Chris wanted his touch. He seemed to hold back, careful not to ask too much. Careful not to make Chris feel threatened. As if he didn't trust what was happening.

 

Frustrated when he realized it, Chris pressed down and forward, catching the back of Vin's head, wrapping his fingers in the long curls and holding Vin still. For a few seconds, Vin tugged, fighting, then he opened his eyes and looked up at Chris, his bright eyes pinched in confusion.

 

Chris stared into his eyes, into the confusion and the distance, seeing behind it the fear and, worse, the conviction. The belief that what they had tonight was not to last.

 

And he did the one thing that he knew would break the divide, the one thing he knew Vin couldn't fight.

 

The one thing he, himself, took as a commitment.

 

He leaned down slowly, carefully, and pressed his lips against Vin's. For a time, Vin was so still that Chris wasn't sure he was breathing. He almost broke away, afraid that somehow, without intending it, he had suffocated Vin.

 

Then Chris felt the lightest touch on his back, the slightest pressure as Vin's fingertips skimmed slowly up his skin. The pressure grew stronger as he got closer to Chris' head, and the movement slowed until Vin was resting his fingers on the back of Chris' neck. Pressing, but at the same time, so careful, so controlled that Chris could feel the beat of his heart, the fast rhythm of need and desire – and fear.

 

It was accompanied by the pressure of Vin's hips as they pushed up, forcing contact between them.

 

Then Vin's lips parted, and Chris understood. For an instant, he was terrified, thinking of Sara and Lydia and Maria and most of the women he had known in his life.

 

But those images rolling through his head ended with Ella Gaines.

 

Vin made a low noise, the sound of it vibrating through Chris. It grounded him, called him out of the nightmare, reminded him of what he had. Of what he needed.

 

Of the closest thing to forgiveness he would ever accept.

 

Vin reached between them, catching Chris' cock and holding it close, then, after a time, pulling it against his own.

 

They had done this before, it was the easiest, quickest way to get off. But this time, with their lips together and his tongue in Vin's mouth, it wasn't what it had been before. It was like the fire in the metal stove, crackling and popping and shooting sparks; like the ice on the roof, sharp and brittle and ringing like bells; like the burn of good whiskey, pooling low in his belly, heating him from the inside.

 

Like the comfort of home, the peace of knowing what to expect.

 

The taste of Vin, sweet and bitter and spicy, the familiar lines of his body, the friction between them, and the knowledge, sure and solid, that Vin was staying right here, washed through Chris, the crest of it catching them both together.

 

Afterward, they lay tangled together. For a time, Chris was afraid to move, afraid that what he'd felt, what he wanted, had been in the moment.

 

Then Vin drew a long, slow breath and he turned his head toward Chris, his nose brushing against Chris' cheek. With no thought, Chris shifted so that his lips brushed Vin's. He felt the twitch of Vin's grin as Vin responded in kind.

 

The sun rose slowly on Christmas morning, creeping across the gentle swells of Chris' pasture, catching icy spikes of grass and burnishing them to a buttery gold.

 

"Like a new land," Vin said softly, standing in the doorway, the steam from his coffee creating silver spirals in the biting air.

 

Chris eased up behind him, looking past the copper curls of his hair to a world he'd not seen before. He slid one arm around Vin's waist, and lifted his other hand to Vin's lips, offering up a slice of warm raisin bread, touched with a fine layer of honey.

 

 

 

 


End file.
